


New Year, New Sensations on my Tastebuds

by anxiousgoat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Actually Just Harry's Tongue, Crack, Harry's Tongue Is Sassy, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Okay It's From Harry's Tongue's Point Of View, Tongues, Writing This Has Made Me Way Too Conscious Of My Own Tongue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29497221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxiousgoat/pseuds/anxiousgoat
Summary: Harry's tongue wants to get KISSED. Is that so wrong?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30
Collections: Fanatical Fics’s New Year’s Competition 2021





	New Year, New Sensations on my Tastebuds

**Author's Note:**

> with many thanks to tschulie for making me think I should write this 😁

I curl myself around the last sweet, soft bite of treacle tart and toss it down my boy’s throat. A hum of satisfaction thrums through me. If there’s one thing Harry Potter and I agree on, it’s the indisputable desirability of treacle tart. Other than that, I can’t say he treats me well. I mean, pretty much all I got last year was dubious mushrooms, tinned mundanities and the odd underdone trout (I hope he never tries to eat trout again). The worst bit was when he was on that bloody dragon for hours and hours. I swear he spent most of it screaming and by the time we landed I was _parched_.

I’ve been much better off since he went back to school, though, and today is New Year’s Eve, so the food is even better than usual. Only… it’s not just about food, is it? I mean, food is wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but we turned eighteen a few months ago, the boy and I, and an eighteen year old tongue just wants more. Yes, there was the girl who always tasted of chocolate a couple of years ago. Ginny. But since then there’s been nothing. I want to taste soft lips, to thrust against another wet, eager tongue, to sample plump, smooth skin. I want to explore! I do _not_ want to just hang around in this boring old mouth year after year.

“All right,” Harry is saying. “I’ll talk to Draco if you’ll come to the party instead of sitting around doing homework, Hermione.”

His friend laughs.

“Fine,” she says. “But you have to actually tell him how you feel, Harry.”

“Maybe,” mumbles Harry.

I’ll confess that I haven’t been paying much attention to my boy over the last few weeks, and I hadn’t realised that his attraction to this Draco boy, who tastes like apples and mint and ink and sadness, had got as far as him actually telling anyone about it, even his best friends. This is exciting news! Perhaps I’ll see even some action soon, especially if there’s a party.

I wonder if apples-mint-ink-sadness-Draco is around at the moment, and since there are still some treacle tart crumbs lingering around Harry’s mouth, I have an excellent excuse for checking. I sidle casually out of his mouth, wandering over his lips to collect the crumbs, paying close attention to everyone who’s near him. Draco isn’t there, though, although he could be somewhere else in this enormous room. When there are so many people together at once, they melt together on my tastebuds and I can’t distinguish individuals further away than a few feet. As I strain to sense a little further, a tall, narrow figure that tastes of quills and books and tea approaches.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” says the new Headmistress. “I was hoping to have a quick word with you about… Mr. Potter, are you quite well?” I am whisked back into Harry’s mouth, which clamps closed behind me. Honestly, is it _any_ business of hers what my boy does with his tongue?

Still, after that the party can’t come early enough for me. I keep slipping out of Harry’s mouth, hoping to taste music and drink and dancing on the air, but nothing happens for a few hours, though Harry spends some time with his new friends. He doesn’t live with the same people he did for the first six years at Hogwarts because there isn’t space in the usual dormitories and the Headmistress thought it would be good for them to mix properly after the war. So here we are.

The party starts at last and Harry wanders out into the eighth years’ common room with his friends. It tastes of food and drink and fire, of bodies and music, the taste of celebration. Harry is immediately surrounded by people, talking and laughing and offering him drinks. Butterbeer splashes over me and I swallow it down happily. Time goes on, and so does the chatter and laughter. I get more butterbeer, then Gamp’s Alabaster ale, then firewhisky. It’s a damn good evening. Even the food isn’t as horrible as it sometimes is at these kids’ parties.

But despite Harry’s increasing intoxication, he’s failed to spend any significant time with apples-mint-ink-sadness-Draco. Oh, they’ve encountered one another and, well, stood there in silence for a bit.

“Draco,” Harry said.

And, “Harry,” Draco said.

Really. I know they’re still teenagers, but _really_.

Harry flops down onto a large, soft sofa and drains his glass of firewhisky. One thing about him being a bit pissed is that it’s much easier for me to sneakily drift out of his slightly open mouth without him noticing. On the other hand, firewhisky is so strong on my tastebuds right now that I can barely detect anything else around me. Still, after some careful concentration, I manage to detect apples and mint… aha! He’s approaching Harry!

“Potter,” he drawls, waving a glass of red wine at my boy. “You look like a starving mongrel with your tongue hanging out like that.”

Harry doesn’t whip me back into his mouth as he did when Professor McGonagall criticised him. Instead he grins up at Draco from his almost horizontal position on the sofa, each of his limbs sprawling in a different direction and me still lolling out of his mouth as he laughs.

“Why don’t you find somewhere better for my tongue if you don’t like it where he is?” he says, rather slurrily, and snorts with laughter at his own feeble joke.

“Your tongue is as uncouth as the rest of you, Potter,” says Draco, folding his long legs and collapsing onto the sofa beside Harry, by some acrobatic miracle not spilling any of his wine. He takes a sip, smiles at the wine glass, then puts it down and stares solemnly at Harry. I wait. According to Hermione, Harry’s supposed to tell Draco how he feels. According to me, he’s supposed to bloody well snog him.

Of course, being the oblivious walnut to end oblivious walnuts, Harry does neither.

“You’re supposed to call me Harry,” he says petulantly, instead. If I had eyes, I’d be rolling them right now.

Draco levers himself into a sitting position and leans over my boy, so close that I can taste the ink and sadness on him even through the wine and food and party.

“Harry,” he says, his mouth curling into a smirk. Whereupon, to my surprise and delight, Harry reaches up an arm and yanks Draco down towards him. Finally! I plunge eagerly into Draco’s mouth.

Draco’s tongue and I are growing intimately acquainted when a sudden cheer goes up. I feel Draco begin to pull away, but I have no intention of giving up the taste of wine and apples on his tongue. Harry’s hands pull him closer and he makes a little growly-moany noise against me. People are continuing to cheer, wishing each other a happy new year and letting off fireworks (which doesn’t seem sensible but there are several Gryffindors among them). As for me, well, I keep on kissing.


End file.
